


ombre chère

by kathryne



Category: Portrait de la jeune fille en feu | Portrait of a Lady on Fire (2019)
Genre: F/F, On looking and being seen, Post-Canon, Women's art
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-18 07:50:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21840793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kathryne/pseuds/kathryne
Summary: Notes from the underworld.
Relationships: Héloïse/Marianne
Comments: 12
Kudos: 130
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	ombre chère

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Horsdemavue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Horsdemavue/gifts).



> This was such a gorgeous film and I was so happy to get a chance to revisit it. I hope you enjoy! Happy Yuletide!

_Eurydice, Eurydice, ombre chère, ah! dans quels lieux es-tu?  
\- Orphée et Eurydice_

\--

Milan was not as horrible as Héloïse had feared, or rather, it was horrible in different ways, for though the strict social standards of her mother's age had shifted somewhat, the very air of the city was strange to her. The thick fogs that blanketed the streets in winter stifled her and made her snappish; she longed for the wild rough cliffs, the chill spray of salt water, the bracing sting of the sea on her skin.

Thus all women must give up childish pleasures, said her mother, and Héloïse refrained from remarking on their return to her mother's home country.

So, Milan, its ornate palazzos and intricate society designed as if to remind her she was an outsider. And yet her husband did not make it worse; did, on occasion, in fact make it easier to live there and to see herself living there for the rest of her life. 

He had, after all, seen the painting of her – seen her as Marianne had seen her – and still chosen her; he had waited many months for a sight of her and, having seen the truth of her, had wanted her. It did not mean she wanted him, but it did set him apart from the worst of the suitors she had imagined. He gave her some freedoms; he took her with him when he traveled; he had little interest in concerts or recitals but never protested her attendance, which was more than she could have hoped for.

Their estate sat a bit south of the city, and within its bounds she could wander. The servingwomen spoke a rougher variant of the language that Héloïse had learned from her mother, faster and sharper and full of local slang, but they were kind enough to their foreign mistress. She was not at a complete remove from them; she did not feel entirely alone.

When her husband wanted her, she went, and though he cared that she had spirit, cared that she was proud, he did not care that her body did not speak to his, or perhaps did not know enough to tell otherwise. She knew, and she remembered; she turned often to Marianne's sketch in her book, her fingers more alive against the ink on the page than on her husband's skin.

She got with child after several years and her own body became strange to her. She remembered Sophie's misery and determination, but clung instead to the memory of Marianne's touch. 

"There is a painter coming," her husband said one day over dinner, and Héloïse nearly broke the stem of her wineglass, her knuckles whitening with the force of her grip.

"Really?" she managed, and he continued, oblivious.

"Some new talent from France who's been making news in town. A portraitist. I thought it was time to have another done. A nursery portrait, I think, the two of you with your golden curls. You'll sit for this man." It wasn't a question.

For a moment, Héloïse felt faint. Her entire soul had grown lighter with a moment's brief hope. That lost, she saw no reason to argue; she bent her head and continued eating.

"Imagine," her husband said. "If the painting speaks to him, perhaps he'll make a copy of it and take it back to France, to display in the salons. You'd like that, won't you? To have something of yourself still there?"

Héloïse breathed again. She saw it, as if in a vision: Marianne, but not in memory, in a room filled with people, filled with paintings, and yet staring at one painting as though nothing else was there. In that moment she understood the gift she was being given.

She looked up demurely from her plate and smiled across the table. "I will take care of everything," she promised.

The painter, when he arrived, could not have been more different than Marianne: old and shabby, with a shock of grey hair over a pointed nose and paint on the cuffs of his shirts. He had already decided the style of painting he wished to do. He was not prepared for Héloïse.

"But a Madonna and child, madame," he exclaimed, wringing his hands, nearly snapping his paintbrush. "So beautiful. So classic. The epitome of maternal love."

"No." Héloïse was inflexible. She sat calmly, her arms folded in her lap. Though speaking French again was a joy, she didn't show it; she waited for the painter to listen to her.

"I have had my paintings accepted in salons across Europe," he said. "What makes you think you know better than I what should be shown?"

"I have been painted before, monsieur," she said. "I know the rules and conventions that govern your work. But I want you to see me. I know how I want to be shown."

She had braced herself for much greater resistance, so it was a surprise when he capitulated. "All right," he said, "why not a challenge?" And for a moment he did remind her of Marianne, and that was a gift too.

For each question the painter asked, Héloïse had an answer, even when she had not previously thought to wonder. The painting took shape in her mind and then, slowly, on the canvas. She insisted on wearing white and putting her hair up despite the painter's dire warnings; it was too simple, there wasn't enough to catch the eye. 

He begged her, again, to hold her son, but she still refused. When she settled them on the stool in the bright room where the easel was set up, he walked around them, squinting. Her son clung to her hand and watched until the painter finally stopped and took them in.

"All right," the painter said once more, and set to work.

They roughed in her son's outline and features first before settling down to the rest of work. "Boys," the painter said, "they won't sit still for anything, will they," and Héloïse held herself more erect, the only motion the slight rub of her finger between the pages of the book she was holding.

While he worked, she stared into the distance; though she looked at him, she didn't see him. The last time she had sat for a portrait, she'd wanted only to draw the hours out as long as possible; this time, days stretched beyond measure, the process moving from uncomfortable to torturous.

"Finished," he said, and it took her a moment to respond. She stood slowly and walked to him, bracing herself not to react.

The painting was just as she had imagined it, and yet – she looked closer, eyes on the slight curve of her mouth. "I don't look angry," she whispered, mostly to herself.

No," the painter responded from behind her. "You look... strong." She whirled to confront him, and he backed away slightly. "My apologies, madame, but that is what I saw."

Strong. She turned back to the painting. Yes. But one thing was missing.

"One last detail," she said, gesturing to the painted book. "Here?"

The painter looked at where she was pointing, then met her eyes. He picked a fine brush and daubed it against his palette. Then he held it out to her. "Would you like to finish it?" he asked.

Her hand steady, Héloïse took the brush.


End file.
